‘There you are!’ said Harry, peeking his head around the shelf marked ‘Non-fiction’. ‘How’s Willow?’

It was Tuesday morning and I sat hugging my knees in the library, practising my spelling words for the test on Friday.

Accommodate. Two Cs and two Ms.

‘She’s okay,’ I murmured. ‘Aunt Evie’s been taking her to work so she can keep an eye on her.’

‘Okay, cool. So, you coming? Everyone’s down at the oval already.’

I ignored him and ran my finger down to the next word.

Receive. R, E, C …

‘You could always ask for a different activity instead of Red Rover,’ he said. ‘Mr Wilco’s pretty cool. I’m sure he’d listen if you asked him.’ He studied the paper in my lap. ‘I before E except after C.’

‘Huh?’

‘It’s a spelling rule. I before E except after C when the sound is EE. R, E, C, E, I, V, E. Didn’t they teach you that in Queensland?’

I folded up my exercise book and tucked it into my bag.

‘No biggie. Just, it’s the only rule I know,’ Harry conceded. ‘Spelling’s not my strong point.’ He turned to the door. ‘So, you coming?’

I snuck a look at Harry’s face. Maybe I could ask Mr Wilco for a different activity. Like art. Perhaps if I just played Red Rover this one last time, Mr Wilco might agree to a change.

Dakota stood in the middle of the oval, two friends by her side. Harry and I slipped into the line of students and waited to see who would be called.

‘Nice of you to join us,’ said Mr Wilco.

Dakota fixed her eyes on me. ‘Red Rover, Red Rover, we call over …’

I held my breath, my heart thumping.

‘Queenslanders!’

I glanced at the others, my eyes prickling. Had Harry put her up to this? Had he just brought me out here to give the others a laugh? I should have known.

Hot air tickled my neck. Harry was leaning in close, breathing instructions into my ear. ‘Run in zigzags,’ he whispered, ‘and keep in her blind spots. She can’t see sideways with those glasses. Works every time.’

The black frames on her glasses were pretty thick.

‘Go, now!’ Harry urged.

I burst over the line and sprinted across the field, my legs pounding, my lungs begging me to stop. My runners had been a good choice. After that first disastrous day, my pink flats had been stuffed into the bottom of my suitcase and I didn’t plan on wearing them for the rest of my stay.

Near the middle of the oval Dakota dived towards me, but I ducked and weaved in zigzags like Harry said until, with a final burst of energy, I sailed through the cones on the far side.

‘Home!’ I heard Harry yell as I hunched over, my palms on my knees, sucking in loud, gasping breaths.

‘Home,’ I whispered.

‘So, have you chosen your ology project?’ asked Dakota, looking at me properly for the first time since I’d arrived as we walked back to class.

I nodded.

‘Let me guess. Mangoes?’

I shook my head.

Dakota pulled a face. ‘Drawing-ology?’

I snuck a glance at Harry, jostling at the bubbler with his friends. ‘Wombat-ology,’ I whispered.

‘You like wombats? That’s cool. My mum does, too.’

My eyebrows arched. ‘She does?’

‘She’s obsessed,’ Dakota continued. ‘It’s insane how much she loves them. You should see all her wombat stuff: wombat mugs, wombat T-shirts, wombat tea towels. It’s all we ever get her for Mother’s Day.’

I frowned. I thought everyone around here hated wombats.

‘So, what angle are you taking?’

‘What do you mean, “angle”?’ I asked. ‘You never said anything about angles before.’

‘For extra marks. You have to choose something particular about your subject to focus on. So, for wombats, you could do wombat food. Or wombat burrows. Like I said, I’m doing planet-ology, and my angle is planets humans can live on. Get it?’

‘Do you have to choose an angle?’

‘Nope.’ She looked at me with a grin. ‘But I’m guessing you want an A, right?’

Great, just when I thought I had my project sorted. Now I had to find an angle.

‘Hey, Mum.’

‘Hi, sweetheart.’

It was early Wednesday morning – or Tuesday night in Ireland – and Mum’s face looked swollen from crying. In the excitement over Willow, Harry and Fatticake during the past week, I’d forgotten all about Nanna’s funeral.

‘How did it go?’ I asked, pulling in close the old red dressing gown Aunt Evie had lent me. Little Willow and I sat on the couch with a sleepy Miss Pearl while Aunt Evie ducked outside to get some more wood. The pot-belly stove had gone out overnight, and the cottage was freezing. I wished I’d slipped on some warm socks before answering the Skype call, but I hadn’t, so now I snuggled in closer to Miss Pearl, hoping to soak up some of her warmth.

Mum let out a muffled sob before explaining the funeral had been small but nice. ‘I put your card in beside Nanna,’ she added, her eyes welling as she reached for another tissue. ‘Like you asked.’

I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat. Since I couldn’t be there to say goodbye to Nanna in person, I’d drawn her a picture of me to be with her instead.

Mum sniffed. ‘It was … we thought … oh dear …’

Dad’s face appeared on the screen, while in the background Mum blew her nose. ‘Hey, hon, what’s happening?’ he said, turning the screen towards him. He had dark circles under his eyes and I guessed the funeral would have been hard on him, too. ‘Have you been working on your ology project?’

‘Well, um …’ My own eyes were warm with tears. I really, really missed them and wished they’d hurry home. ‘Kind of.’

‘Decided on a topic yet?’

The internet connection was lousy and Dad’s face became pixelated.

‘Pardon? What was that?’ I said. A single tear rolled down my cheek. Mum and Dad seemed so far away.

‘Oh, Mouse, don’t cry,’ said Dad, after the picture cleared. ‘We’ll be home in a few weeks. And Mum’s bought you these amazing felt-tip pens. You’ll be a regular Picasso once you get your hands on them.’

I sniffed, wiping my cheeks with my sleeve.

‘What else?’ said Dad brightly. ‘Have you made any new friends? And what about that wombat. Is she behaving herself?’

I swung the laptop towards Miss Pearl. She was on her back, twitching in her sleep, her head resting on a chunk of stuffing bulging from a cushion. Willow, who’d just begun to wriggle, popped her head out of her blanket pouch.

‘What’s that?’ exclaimed Dad. ‘Another one?’ He turned to Mum. ‘Look, sweetheart, there’s another wombat!’

Mum’s face reappeared on the screen. ‘Mouse! What on earth’s going on over there? Are you and Aunt Evie running a wombat sanctuary or something?’

I laughed through my tears. ‘I wish. No, we just seem to be collecting wombats.’

‘You sure are,’ said Mum. ‘Is it usual for wombats to snuggle like that?’

To be honest I didn’t know what was usual about wombat behaviour. In fact, I didn’t know very much at all. Perhaps it was time I got more serious about my ology project.

I’d just started Googling ‘wombat behaviour’ when Aunt Evie returned with the wood. ‘All okay?’ she asked.

‘Um, yeah,’ I said, scrolling down the search options. ‘Mum said the funeral went okay. Do you mind if I just borrow your laptop for one more sec?’

‘Sure,’ said Aunt Evie. ‘I’ll go put the porridge on.’

The first site said that, unlike other species, southern hairy-nosed wombats didn’t mind sharing their burrows, with the record of wombats in one burrow reaching 38. Burrows could be narrow, only as wide as a bowling ball, or wide enough for a skinny adult to squeeze into. The longest ever burrow was measured at 60 metres long and four metres deep, and contained different chambers for sleeping and grooming.

‘You wouldn’t mind sharing a burrow, would you?’ I asked, scratching under Willow’s chin and then Miss Pearl’s.

The website went on to say that a wombat’s burrow provided a cool place to shelter in summer and was warm in winter, and since a burrow took a lot of energy to dig, wombats preferred to reuse old burrows rather than dig new ones.

I wasn’t surprised. It said a ten-metre tunnel could take over 80 hours to make. Males usually inherited the family burrow, which could be up to 50 years old. Fatticake’s burrow could be the same one that he was born in. Because burrows were so complex, cave-ins and blockages commonly led to the death of the occupying wombat.

‘Porridge is ready!’ called Aunt Evie from the kitchen.

‘One more minute.’

I’d just spotted something I wanted to read. A South Australian Government site explained that a free application for a permit to ‘Destroy Wildlife’ could be obtained from their department, as long as farmers could prove that wombats were causing damage to their farm.

I shuddered and quickly shut the laptop.

‘What’s wrong?’ asked Aunt Evie when I slid into my place at the table.

‘Nothing,’ I said, staring into my steaming porridge.

‘Mouse? You okay?’

I shifted in my seat. ‘Yeah,’ I murmured. ‘I’ve just thought of an angle for my ology project.’